The barn swallows built a nest above my studio door. They usually build one somewhere along the roofline, but often on the back side where I can’t so easily see it.
For weeks I heard them working as I worked, chittering to each other as they took turns resting on the curved stem of a steel lamp. I’d catch glimpses of them after a morning rain scooping up mouthfuls of mud to do their chinking. One day, once the nest was complete, I saw the boy pick up a down feather recently preened from one of our ducks and give it to the girl to line the nest: Hi honey; I brought you a comforter.
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